Mama Sees Stars: A Mace Bauer Mystery (3 page)

Greg Tilton stood ramrod
straight, feet at forty-five degrees, hands clasped behind his back. He must have played a rookie cop, addressing a superior officer, in some forgotten movie.

“I established the victim was dead, beyond medical help.’’

Carlos’s eyes were unreadable, but I saw the slightest smirk breaking through the hard set of his jaw. “At ease, Greg. We’re just talking here.’’

Tilton seemed to relax a bit.

“You complicated things by moving the body, though.’’

He tensed up again. “I know. I’m so sorry. Like I told her …’’ he raised a questioning eyebrow at me.

“Mace Bauer,’’ I said. “I’m the animal wrangler.’’

“Yeah. Anyway, I was moving on adrenaline and instinct. I didn’t even realize what I did until it was over. I’m sure you’ve been in a similar situation on the job, Officer.’’

“Detective,’’ Carlos corrected him.

“Sorry. Detective.’’

He laid a hand, man-to-man, on Carlos’s shoulder. Carlos stared at it like somebody had just dropped a rotten fish on his starched white button-down. Tilton jerked his hand back like he’d caught a hook in the palm. He checked the crowd, probably wondering who had witnessed him overstepping his boundaries.

A couple dozen members of cast and crew had gathered in the open space between the production trailers. They milled around, eating, smoking, waiting to see what would happen next. The sun was relentless, the nearing-noon temperature climbing into the nineties. Whoever scheduled the location shoot in September hadn’t done their homework. “Fall’’ in middle Florida can still be blisteringly hot; and September holds a better chance than any other month of the year of a hurricane roaring through.

Carlos had been silent long enough to make Tilton sweat. “Who’s in charge?’’ he finally asked.

“The director, Paul Watkins …” Tilton started to say.

“I’m Jonathan J. Burt, first assistant director.’’ The officious-looking man who’d directed the morning horse scene stepped forward, interrupting Tilton. “At your service.’’

He looked like he was expecting a gold star. Another tiny smirk threatened to crack through Carlos’s deadpan demeanor, but he banished it. I’d lay odds on what he was thinking, though:
What a weenie
.

Jonathan J. Burt was just a few inches taller than Mama. He wore a pearl-colored cardigan that looked like cashmere, gray wool slacks, and highly polished wing tips. A silk bow tie completed his ensemble. A silk tie. In Himmarshee! In September!!

“I’d like to talk to the man you have handling security,’’ Carlos said.

“Certainly. Anything you need.’’ The assistant director bobbed his head in time to his words. “I finished shooting the scene we’d scheduled for this morning. Can you tell us what we must do now to accommodate the police investigation?’’

“You can’t do any scenes by the horse corral. We’ll be there all day,’’ Carlos said. “Crime scene tape is up. Access is restricted. We may want to remove the section of fence where the victim was found. If we do, the horses might have to be relocated.’’

The assistant director cocked his head toward me. “Can you do that?’’

“If I need to,’’ I said. “There’s a second enclosure we’re going to use for cattle.’’

He head-bobbed, and then turned his eyes to the crowd. It seemed like he was searching for someone. “Anything else?’’ he asked Carlos.

“Just carry on with your business. But keep yourselves available.’’

Bob-bob, head cock: “Will you need to question anyone?’’

“Not yet. Let me see what I have here first.’’ Carlos paused. “Why? Is there someone you think I should question?’’

The assistant director spoke quickly. “No, not at all. No. Of course not.’’

The crowd was hushed, waiting for Carlos to say more. He focused those black lasers of his on Jonathan J. Burt. I could almost feel the poor man squirm under the heat. I can remember getting singed a time or two myself, when Carlos first moved up from Miami and thought my mama was a murderer.

Burt started bobbing. Just as it looked like he might open his mouth to amend his denial, a woman’s shout broke the silence. “Yeeeeeeeee-haw! Let’s get this party started.’’

Jesse Donahue, grown-up ’tween star gone wrong, tossed her cowboy hat in the air, as she walked toward the assembled group. With a Rockette kick, she caught the hat on the pointy toe of her boot. Then, stumbling a bit, she plucked off the hat and returned it to her head. She looked around, probably expecting applause. She got stunned silence from the audience instead.

“Jeez, did somebody die?’’

Several people gasped. Mama’s hand flew to her heart. Jesse, oblivious, took off the hat again, shook out her mane of flaming red hair, and yelled over her shoulder to the trailer she’d just exited. “Toby! Get your hot little butt out here. I need somebody to party with, and there’s nobody here but a bunch of dinosaurs and deadbeats.’’

The trailer door opened. A shirtless Toby Wyle stepped out. I recognized him from my careful reading of the
National Enquirer
at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow beauty salon, Mama’s workplace. He ranked No. 7 in the tabloid’s list of
Hollywood’s Top 10 Teen Hotties
.

He stood on the trailer’s wide top step as if it were a stage. And then, slowly, deliberately, he zipped up the open fly on his jeans.

I looked again at Jesse. Her face was flushed, the famous hair caked with sweat and who knows what else. As everyone watched, she mounted the trailer’s steps, grabbed one of Toby’s bare nipples, and playfully tweaked. “C’mon, you ham. Everyone already knows you’re a stud.’’

The tall woman I’d seen earlier handing the sandwich and cell phone to Norman hurried toward the young couple. She whispered in Jesse’s ear. The troubled star clapped a hand over her own mouth, mostly hitting her cheek instead.

“Ohmigod, I’m so sorry!’’

Jesse’s words were a bit slurred. Apparently, the
Enquirer
had its facts straight about her and substance abuse. Eyes tearing up, she turned to her young co-star. “Toby, you won’t believe it! While we were shagging all morning, somebody shot Norman Sydney.’’

Toby took a step backward, clutching his stomach as if he’d been punched. He was either truly shocked, or a decent actor. I couldn’t remember if
Top 10 Teen Hotties
said he had real talent, or was just coasting on his stunning looks.

“Where’s Paul? Does he know?’’ Jesse asked.

Shrugs and head-shakes moved around the crowd.

“Paul?’’ Carlos asked.

“Watkins. Our director.’’ Jonathan’s head bobbed. “He’s in charge of every scene in the movie.’’

“I thought you said you shot the horse scene this morning?’’ The lasers recalibrated, focusing on Jonathan again. I thought I smelled the scent of his skin, frying.

He tugged at his bow tie. Bobbed that head a couple of times.

“Well?’’ Carlos prodded.

Jonathan pursed his lips like the classroom tattle-tale he must have been. “Paul told me to do the scene. He said he needed some time away from the set to cool down.’’

“And?’’ Carlos waited.

“He said if Norman got into his face one more time, he was going to kill him.’’

His forehead glistened with a thin sheen of sweat. Now it was obvious: September really was too hot in Himmarshee to wear cashmere.

The sandwich-and-cell-phone woman stepped
out of the crowd. She smoothed the hem of a jean skirt that was far too short for a woman of her age. “I’m Barbara Sydney, Norman’s ex-wife.’’

Her voice had a smoker’s burr, and her words were missing their R’s. Boston, maybe?

Carlos raised an eyebrow. I could almost see his detective’s brain, fitting a jigsaw puzzle together. How “ex-” were they? Was the divorce amiable or acrimonious? Where would Barbara’s piece fit?

“I’m sorry for your loss,’’ he said.

“Thank you.’’ For a moment, the hard features of her face softened. “I cared for Norman once, about a hundred years ago, and we did manage to stay on speaking terms after our split. But I have to be honest with you: The man was not well loved by Hollywood. If Paul Watkins
was
overheard threatening him …’’

She paused and looked at the assistant director, contempt and skepticism written on her face. He started to explain, but Barbara raised her hand like a traffic cop. Jonathan Burt snapped his mouth shut, and stared at the ground.

She continued speaking to Carlos. “I just want you to know that on any given day, half the cast and crew might have made the same kind of threat. Hell, I’ve threatened to kill him, plenty of times.’’

A few nervous titters could be heard. But as Carlos turned his eyes on the crowd, silence descended. He missed nothing. I knew he was watching for tics, facial expressions, body language. My eyes were on Sam and Kelly. Her beauty was like a magnet, pulling my gaze in. Sam watched her, too. But Kelly’s eyes seemed focused far off in the distance, or maybe in the past. What did she see?

I also noticed that her eyes were clear, with little evidence of her earlier crying jag. If I’d sobbed like she had, my lids would be swollen and puffy. My nose would be a beet. These Hollywood people must have some make-up tricks that not even Mama knows.

On the periphery of the crowd, the young star, Jesse, raised her hand. Carlos nodded at her to speak. She tossed her red hair like the head cheerleader.

“Are we gonna be here much longer?’’

“Are we keeping you from something?’’

“It’s just that I really, really, really need some caffeine, even though the coffee here is a sorry excuse. On my last film, we had a whole coffee bar: cappuccinos, syrups, lattes, espresso—whatever we wanted.’’

“What’s your name, Miss?’’

As Carlos extracted his notebook, Jesse raised her brows at her playmate, Toby, beside her. Then she shot a disbelieving look at Carlos. She shook her hair again. “Uhhmmm, Jesse Donahue? Maybe you’ve heard of me?’’

He took his time writing something, and then finally looked up from the notebook. Smiled. “Sorry,’’ he said. “I don’t read the tabloids.’’

She waved a hand. “
Whatev.
All I’m saying is I’d love some coffee. And I’d kill to be able to find a half-skim vanilla latte in this stupid hick town.’’

Mama tsk-tsked beside me. Even Toby looked embarrassed. Barbara glared at Jesse. “Maybe you’re too drug-addled to remember, but somebody did just kill my ex-husband. And it probably wasn’t over a latte.’’

Jesse quickly hung her head. “Sorry, Barbara.’’ Her mumbled voice was barely audible. “You’re right.’’

Mama and I exchanged a glance. I put my mouth right next to her ear. “I thought that Barbara was Norman’s lowly assistant this morning, the way she was running after him.’’

“Me, too,’’ Mama whispered back.

Jesse’s head was still down, her hair a tent over her face. Toby and the assistant director were also busy trying to avoid meeting the gaze of the producer’s ex-wife.

“Looks like we had it wrong, Mama. Barbara Sydney is nobody’s assistant. She’s definitely the alpha dog of this Hollywood pack.’’

_____

I sat next to Carlos at a long plastic table under the catering tent. Norman’s murder had put a temporary hold on the morning’s movie-making. Carlos, awaiting the arrival of crime scene techs from the state lab, had a few moments for a coffee break.

“I couldn’t believe that little witch Jesse made such a big deal over coffee. This brew is fine.’’ I showed my nearly empty cup to him and Mama, who sat across from us. “Almost as tasty as a latte, in fact.’’

“What’s a latte?’’ Mama asked.

“It’s delicious.’’ I licked my lips.

“Wrong. It’s a fancy drink with more sugar and foamy milk than coffee, Rosalee,’’ Carlos countered. He favors the strong, black brew known as Cuban crack.

Mama had started to tell us to quit bickering, when a voice sounded above us. “Is this seat taken?’’

The newcomer’s melodious Southern drawl, more boarding school than backwoods, marked her as an outsider to the Hollywood crowd. One of us. Mama perked up, ready to play the down-home hostess.

“Sit right down, honey. We’d be pleased to share our table with you. I’m Rosalee Provenza, and this is my middle daughter, Mace.’’

The woman put down her coffee cup and nodded at me down the table. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.’’ She offered her hand to Mama, long, tapered fingers extended gracefully. Her chestnut-colored hair was sprinkled with gray.

As the drawling woman got comfortable, Mama nodded toward Carlos. “And this handsome man is Mace’s boyfriend. At least he is today.’’

“I’m Savannah. I’m married to Paul Watkins, the director.’’

Carlos slid his notebook onto the table.

She stiffened. “Are you a reporter?’’ The slightest edge crept into her voice.

“Nope. A detective.’’

She stared at him for a long moment, and then chuckled. “Well, honestly Carlos, I don’t know which one is worse.’’

Mama leaned toward her. “Oh, I think a reporter is worse, honey. Carlos is just trying to find out the truth. All those journalists want to do is dig up dirt.’’

“Sometimes it’s one and the same, Mama.’’

I leaned across the table and shook Savannah’s hand. Her grip was firm, but not too firm. She looked right at me with a hint of mischief in her eyes. I liked that about her, along with the fact that she hadn’t kneeled at Hollywood’s shrine to youth by dyeing her hair or zapping the laugh lines around her mouth.

Carlos stood up abruptly and announced he was getting a coffee refill. Savannah’s brow inched up. “He gets crazy during a case,’’ I apologized for him.

“He’s come a long way with his manners. But you have to remember, he is from Miamuh,’’ Mama said.

When Carlos was far enough away he couldn’t hear me gossiping, I asked her, “You know about what’s happened, right?’’

She nodded, her lips set in a grim line. “Barbara called and told me. It’s awful, isn’t it? I turned right around and came back to the set. I was already in Jacksonville this morning.’’

“Is that where you’re from?’’

“Only because my mama and daddy didn’t make it all the way to Georgia. I was born in the back seat of an old Ford at a rest stop along US Highway 1.’’ She grinned. “They named me Savannah anyway, since that’s where we were headed when we left Eau Gallie, Florida. Could have been worse. They could have called me Eau Gallie.’’

“
Oh Golly
!’’ Mama laughed, hands clapped to her heart. “Honey, that’s such a sweet story. Did your folks ever make it on up to Savannah?’’

She sipped at her coffee. “No. Daddy took up with a stripper and ended up leaving us in a $29-a-night hotel room when I was just six months old. It was Mama and me on our own after that. She got the job in the club that the stripper ran off and left.’’

We were quiet. I considered Savannah’s rich-looking loafers and tailored clothes, casual gray slacks and white linen blouse. Her hair was thick and glossy. Tastefully sized diamonds glittered at her ears, around her neck, and on her wedding ring finger. She’d traveled a long way from that $29-a-night hotel room.

Mama said, “Oh, I know all about bad husbands, honey. I’ve had one or two myself.’’

“Mama’s on Husband No. 5,” I said. “Sal’s a keeper though.’’

“That’s not fair, Mace! You know at least one of those husbands was a good man, but a bad match. And, of course, your daddy was my life’s love—until he up and died on me.’’

“On us, too, Mama.’’ It always irked me when she left out the part about three young girls also losing a father.

“Speaking of husbands …’’ Savannah must have sensed the tension between us on this subject. She smoothly changed it, Southern woman that she was. “Have y’all seen mine?’’

Mama pressed her lips together, stopping a stray word from issuing out. I took a quick look to make sure Carlos was still out of sight. And then I plunged in.

“After Mama and I found Norman’s body, the assistant director made a big deal about your husband being missing all morning.’’

“What’d he say?’’

Mama and I looked at each other. I hesitated, wondering how much I should reveal.

“Just tell her, Mace. Someone is bound to.’’ Mama said to Savannah, “My daughter’s an amateur detective. She’s already solved a couple of murders.’’

“My mama exaggerates,’’ I said, as Savannah eyed me suspiciously. “I’m staying out of this mess.’’

Glancing toward the serving line, I still didn’t see Carlos. He probably took his coffee to go. I took a deep breath and told her how Jonathan J. Burt had as good as called her husband a killer.

“Johnny Jaybird? That little twerp!’’

Savannah, imitating, bobbed her head. I immediately understood the assistant director’s nickname.

“His voice is squawky, too, just like a blue jay,’’ Mama said.

“Well, he’s squawking up the wrong tree this time,’’ Savannah said. “My husband has done just about every job there is on a movie set, from grip to script. Paul’s forgotten more than that little runt will ever know about film-making!’’

Savannah seemed to be working herself into a lather, defending her husband. Mama patted her hand. “Don’t worry, honey. If that Johnny Jaybird is trying to cast aspersions, the truth will win out.’’

“Paul wasn’t even scheduled to be on the set this morning. He was out scouting tomorrow’s location. Today, he’s shooting all afternoon, and into the evening. For all I know, that pint-sized creep took it upon himself to be Paul’s stand-in. What scene did he film?’’

I told her about the galloping and re-galloping horse.

“Figures. He fancies himself an action director.’’

“So where is your husband, then?’’

I was startled to hear Carlos asking the question. We’d been so wrapped up in our conversation, none of us had noticed him hunkered over a table off to our side, his back to us. That explained the quick departure. His plan all along had probably been to sneak back and eavesdrop. How long had he listened? He turned around, regarding the three of us over the rim of his coffee cup.

Savannah coolly met his eyes. “Paul is probably off tromping through the woods right now. He loves the natural side of Florida. He wants to do it justice in the movie. I’ll bet he’s sitting under a cypress tree somewhere, staring up through the needles at that beautiful blue sky and imagining how things were, back in the olden days.’’

Just as Savannah finished summing up her husband’s high opinion of authentic Florida, a crash sounded in the woods behind the catering tent. A string of curses followed. A sixty-something man in a bush vest, cargo pants, and a long gray ponytail stumbled out of the palmetto scrub. His face was bright red. Skunk vine trailed from his ankles. His pant legs were stained with black mud and sopping wet up past his knees.

“Paul!’’ Savannah called out.

He lurched toward us, swatting at bugs with both hands. I smelled the insect repellent on him before he arrived.

“Remind me again, Savannah. Why’d I ever take on a film in this God-forsaken state? ‘A Land Remembered’? It should be ‘A Land Forgotten’.’’

Carlos stood up. “Love it or hate it, you better get used to it. Nobody leaves Himmarshee until we find out who killed Norman Sydney.’’